The Fallen
by TikiPrincess
Summary: Following a trail of clues left by her brother's death, Xochitl Aguilar travels to Gotham, seeking vengeance. But how far is she willing to go to get her revenge? And will her new acquaintances stop her? Or will they push her over the edge? Non-romantic plot that focuses on OC. M-rating for language and violence. A gift fic for Miss Scorp.
1. Chapter 1

A very, very late gift fic for Miss Scorp who has changed her name a few times since this was promised to her.

This story blends elements of Jason Todd from the various incarnations, but mostly the _Red Hood and Scarlet_ arc by Morrison and Tan. Except for the costume. Not a huge fan of that one.

Although firmly set in Gotham, there are several references to the TV show _Arrow_, but not enough that I feel the need to call this a crossover.

If you are unfamiliar with Spanish words and pronunciation, please see the notes at the bottom of the chapter.

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><p>"Mija, your tio says you're renting out your condo for another six months." Xochitl winced as she heard the unspoken accusation in her mother's voice through the cell phone pressed to her ear. How dare her uncle know more information about her than her own mother! "When are you coming back to Starling City?"<p>

It was a good question. Too bad she didn't know the answer. "Just a little while longer, Mama. Wayne Enterprises is still dragging their feet," she said, fumbling with the keys to her studio apartment. Of course the landlord couldn't be bothered to make the key to the deadbolt a different color than the lock on the knob, yet he still made sure that "DO NOT DUPLICATE" was engraved on both. "They still don't see the benefits of hiring a PR firm when they've got full-time Public Relations Officer. If we can get Wayne on board, it would solidify our position here in Gotham."

"If they haven't made up their minds after six months, then I doubt there's much you can do to change it. It's time to come home." Xochitl heard the catch in her mother's voice even through the crackle of static and the slam of the door as she finally stumbled into her apartment.

Quickly stifling a twinge of guilt, she flipped on the light, hoping the noise of her entry had already scared away whatever creepy-crawlies might be scrounging about for crumbs in the cracks of the linoleum floor. They were persistent, even when she'd sprayed the room from top to bottom and left bait traps in every conceivable space. Even though she hadn't brought home any food since the first week when the cereal she'd poured into a bowl had ended up being a wriggling mass of black _things_ that sent her screaming into the bathroom.

"Mama, I told you that most of my time has been spent scouting locations and evaluating competing firms in the area, as well as soliciting future clients." She flopped onto her bed, the only significant furniture in the room aside from the small table and chair, where she'd attempted to eat that fateful morning, and a large trunk at the foot of the bed. "The firm is putting a lot of faith in me to get this done, and I don't want to let them down."

"But why does it have to be you? Shouldn't they have sent someone older, who's been with the firm longer? And why send you alone?"

"Because Aaron trusts me to do it." Xochitl closed her eyes, remembering the stricken look on his face when she'd requested a leave of absence without a specified date of return. While her social media savvy was easy to replace with fresh-faced college interns, it was her innate ability to read people, to quickly deduce which buttons needed to be pushed and which ones needed to be protected, that made her so invaluable at Walker and Associates. He'd taken her under his wing, shown her how to utilize her intuition and combine it with a silver tongue, and together they'd managed to land several big clients, including the Davenports and Mark Francis with Kardak Holdings. In fact, they'd been laying the groundwork for Sterling National Bank, now that Walter Steele was no longer with Queen Consolidated. "It would mean a huge promotion, and I'd be one of the lead associates at the new branch."

"I just don't think that Gotham is a safe place for a young woman all on her own."

"And Starling is? The city's elite created an earthquake to level The Glades because they wanted to get rid of the poor people living there. A masked vigilante is running around shooting people with arrows, and I'm not exactly sure I want the police to catch him." She could feel her blood rising to the surface and tried to calm herself, but she couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. "Maybe Memo would still be alive if there were more people like this Hood guy."

The silence from the other end told her she'd gone too far. And the hurt and pain from her brother's death welled up inside, as if the past ten months hadn't happened, as if she was still there, sitting beside her mother on the couch as the detective told them that Guillermo Aguilar had been shot, asking politely if anyone would have wanted to harm him. Hmm, maybe it had something to do with him being a prosecutor for the district attorney's office. Maybe they should look into those case files of his and see if one of them was perhaps a bit more than someone only a few years out of law school should have been handling. Even now, the police had failed to come up with anything substantial, despite their insistence that his murder had been given top priority.

Squeezing back her tears, Xochitl took a deep breath before opening her eyes again. "I'm sorry, Mama. I know you're worried, but I'm doing fine. I'll see if I can get Aaron to arrange a flight home next weekend."

"Okay, mija," her mother said in a shaky voice. "Ten cuidado. I don't know what I would do if I lost you both."

"I promise to be safe," she replied, forcing herself from the warmth and softness of her mattress, her only concession to comfort in the squalid apartment. "Te quiero mucho_, _Mama."

Hanging up, she plugged her phone into its charger and opened her closet to get ready for the day ahead. Or, rather, the evening, which was when her day truly started. She pulled out her clothes for work, shoving the rest aside to stare at the back wall. Her twin brother's picture stared back at her, his expression stern, as if admonishing her for what she'd done, for what she was planning to do. Maybe using his profile picture from the district attorney's website was a bad idea, but it was easier than seeing him smiling and carefree, the dimple on his cheek that matched her own. It was easier to keep her head clear looking for the person responsible for Prosecutor Guillermo Aguilar's death instead of the person that ripped her other half from this earth.

_Besides_, she thought, her eyes tracing the thread pinned to her brother's picture, passing other documents and photos to land on a scarred and pitted face, _that man is already dead_. Not that she had killed him. She'd used every resource, every contact she'd made, even delving into Aaron's personal rolodex, to find the murderer. After two months, she'd found him, drugged him, and questioned him in a seedy motel room that made her apartment feel like a luxury suite. When the time came, she thought she could do it, that her rage and despair over her brother's death would steel her nerves. She stood behind Memo's killer with a gun pointed at his head. Three shots, _pop pop pop_, to match the ones he'd given. She faltered, hand shaking despite the heavy weight of the cold metal clasped in her fingers. With a desperate sob, she'd plunged a needle into his neck, knocking him out while she cleaned up any evidence and wrote a note for the front desk. How was she supposed to know that the desk clerk wouldn't call the police but instead called a group of vigilantes that had formed in the Hood's absence?

She traced the thread again, with her finger this time, to Gotham, tapping the name she'd taken from the hired gunman. Vince Fletcher, the man who'd ordered a hit on the prosecutor who'd been putting a dent in his smuggling business. She'd been able to piece things together after learning of his involvement, finding his hand in several seemingly unrelated cases that Memo had handled. He'd been directly involved in only one. Most of the time, however, he was a whisper, a shadow at the edges of the page: an investor in the company that managed the gas station where the drug bust had gone down, on the board of directors for an elderly home cited for abusing the residents, a benefactor to the hospital that had billed insurance companies for medications that patients never received.

Even in Gotham, he was a hard man to find. Or course, she'd had to be more careful about her methods of inquiry, not wanting to draw attention to herself. This wasn't Starling City where she could drop in on an old friend from high school who happened to be a uniformed officer or owe a favor to an ex-con whose name she'd found hidden in Aaron's files. And Gotham's vigilante seemed far more organized, although just as intolerant of rogues operating in his city without his express permission.

So it had taken the better part of six months to develop the connections to track down Fletcher. Six months of living off her savings, whatever her uncle charged to sublet her condo, and whatever crappy job she needed to gain her contacts.

Speaking of which, she needed to get her ass in gear if she didn't want to be late for work. She opened the trunk and pulled out a few items, tossing them into a small duffel before heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.

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><p>mija - MEE-HA - shortened form of "my girl child", a term of endearment<p>

tio - TEE-O - uncle

Xochitl - SO-CHI - a name derived from the Nahuatl word meaning "flower"

ten cuidado - TEN KWI-DA-DO - be careful, take care

te quiero mucho - TE KI-E-RO MU-CHO - I love you a lot


	2. Chapter 2

A thin haze filled the room as the strategically placed lights pulsed in time with the throbbing music. Wednesday meant that Jazzer could play his dubstep without Mark complaining about "Eurotrash technocrap." It also meant that the seats were mostly occupied by regulars to Club Xtasy, unlike the weekends when they were inundated by bachelor parties and a few out of town frat boys who lived too far to make it into the city during the week. Xochitl could feel eyes boring into her backside as she strode down the length of the bar in her thigh high stockings and heels, which Mark insisted she wear despite the obvious hazards.

"I'm behind the bar, not on top of it," she'd exclaimed when he showed her the outfit she was expected to wear.

"You just say the word, and I'd get you up on that stage in a minute." His eyes roamed over her, a clinical, detached gaze, evaluating her worth. "You still look young enough to pass for a coed, and you'd make a lot more than you will slinging drinks."

But she'd refused. As a dancer, she'd have to spend her time backstage, on stage, or with the customers that paid for her attention. She needed to be on the floor, watching and listening, keeping an eye out for the members of Fletcher's gang that frequented Club X. If the cocktail waitress spent a little more time at their table, no one was going to complain so long as they were ordering drinks. And she made sure they always had drinks, even if she had to pay for them.

"Another round of Jack and Coke's for thirty-four, and Mr. O'Neil wants his usual," she said, calling out the order to Nico as she punched it into the screen. One of the pairs of eyes following her had grown a pair of legs, so she plastered a smile on her face and spun around before he could get too close. "If you want a drink, I can help you with that. If it's anything else, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Unless you think you can get Derrick over there to change his mind about letting me dance." She pointed to one of the burly men sporting the club's logo on his shirt, who'd happily agreed to play the role of boyfriend whenever she needed an out.

"I… um," the boy stammered, a red flush creeping up his neck. Then she remembered the virgin at table twelve whose friends kept dosing him with liquid courage every time she walked by.

Taking pity on him, Xochitl grabbed Colleen, who happened to be passing by and wasn't due on stage for another fifteen minutes. "Brandi, this young gentleman has just turned twenty-one tonight. Why don't you show him how we properly celebrate birthdays her at Club Xtasy?"

Colleen glared for a moment before smiling up at the boy. "Why don't you go on back to your table? I'll be right behind you, sugar." As soon as he was out of earshot, she hissed, "You owe me, Cruz."

"Twenty and we call it even," said Xochitl, shoving a bill at Colleen, who sauntered away, satisfied.

"You handled that one far too easily," said a voice beside her. "I'm guessing that's not the first time it's happened. And with looks like yours, I'm sure it won't be the last."

"Since you've already heard the spiel, I guess I won't waste time saying it again." She flashed him a smile as she grabbed her tray, laden with drinks, and headed off to deliver them. He seemed about her age, despite the silver streak in his jet black hair. And he definitely looked like he could stand toe-to-toe with any of the bouncers and come off the better man. But there was something scary about him too, a hardened edge that made everyone give him a wide berth, leaving the stool beside him empty.

"Compliments of the owner," Xochitl said, placing the glasses on the table two at a time. Several of Fletcher's men pawed at her in subtle and not-to-subtle ways. But she couldn't ask Derrick for help with these guys.

"You tell Mr. Drake that Vinny says, 'Thanks.'" A meaty hand reached out and took one of the glasses.

Xochitl raised her eyes to see the square face and thick black brows of the man who ordered the hit on her brother. Then she smiled and asked, "Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Fletcher?"

"What's your name, sweetheart?" His men had removed their hands, seeing their boss's interest in her.

"Xo-chitl," she replied, pronouncing the syllables clearly. It was reckless to use her real name, especially since it wasn't very common, but a perverse side of her wanted to see if he even knew who she was.

"Like that city in Russia?"

She shook her head. "It's spelled differently. With an X. And I certainly don't look very Russian."

"No, you don't." His hooded gaze took in her caramel skin and her dark brown hair. If he recognized her, he certainly hid it well. "You're new. How long have you been working here?"

"A couple of weeks. Just moved here from Metropolis." She gripped the tray to her side and forced herself to keep smiling, hoping that the dim lights would keep him and his men from seeing the tremors coursing through her. Whether from rage or fear, she couldn't be sure. "Do you need anything else, sir?"

"Just keep the drinks coming," he said, settling back in his chair. "And send Destinee to me after her dance is over."

Xochitl nodded and walked towards the door marked "Private." Once out of sight, she leaned against the wall for support as she gulped breath after breath, trying to swallow down the sobs that threatened to burst from her lips. She allowed herself half a minute. Half a minute to let out a mind-numbing, heart-wrenching cry of agony so long as her eyes stayed dry and her makeup didn't smear. Because that's how long the thumping bass and screeching whine of Jazzer's latest track would last.

"Destinee," she said, poking her head around the bank of lighted mirrors that lined the changing room, "Fletcher wants you at his table after your set."

The redhead smirked, adjusting her top to display more cleavage. "Guess I'll be paying all my bills this month."

Xochitl emerged from the backstage area and started heading back to the bar when a hand grabbed her arm. She whirled around, hefting the tray in her hand as she prepared to strike back.

"Woah, good reflexes," said the guy with the streak in his hair and the don't-fuck-with-me-or-even-get-too-close aura.

Pursing her lips, Xochitl lowered the tray. Hopefully, he'd think her reaction had come from being manhandled one too many times rather than sixteen years studying Eskrima. "Our 'hands-off' policy refers to the help as well as the dancers, buddy. Do it again, and I yell for security."

"Alright, alright." He let go, raising his hands in surrender. "It's Jason, by the way."

"What?"

"My name. It's Jason." His eyes darted furtively around the room before landing on her again. "And it won't happen again. I just needed to ask you a question."

"No, it didn't hurt when I fell from heaven," she said, arranging her bar tray horizontally against her stomach to put some distance between them, "and yes, that bouncer is still my boyfriend."

He cocked his head, a confused look on his face before he shook it off. "Actually, I just wanted to know if an old friend of mine was at the table you went to earlier."

"What do you want with Mr. O'Neil? I mean, I know some people are still mad about—"

"That's not the one I meant, and you know it." The look he gave her made her squirm, and she willed herself to remain impassive. "I'm looking for Vincent Fletcher. Square jaw, black hair, black eyes, large build."

"Are you a cop?" If Fletcher went to jail now, there was nothing but the gunman's word to link him to Memo's death. She needed him to confess before he got arrested.

"Sweetheart, I don't think I've ever been on the right side of the law." There was a bitterness in his voice, as if the statement was one he regretted.

"It's Xochitl." When he stared blankly back at her, she repeated, "My name. It's Xochitl."

"Well, Xochitl, was he there?" He stared at her intensely, and she realized that his gaze had never strayed below her neck during any of their interactions this evening. Not once. Maybe he wasn't a cop, but he wasn't at this strip club by accident, and he sure as hell didn't come for the entertainment.

"There were a couple of guys there that fit that description," she said, choosing her words carefully. "I can ask if any of them is this Mr. Fletcher that you're looking for."

"No," he said, coolly, "this guy would have stood out. I guess I must have mixed up the date we were supposed to meet."

"Can I get you anything else, Mr. … Jason?"

"Nah, I think I'm done here." She let out a breath as he walked away, feeling her tension ease. Then he paused and turned. "Why didn't it hurt?"

"Why didn't what hurt?" she asked. Other than grabbing her arm earlier, which hadn't hurt just surprised her was all, he hadn't touched her.

"When you fell from heaven." The corner of his mouth twitched as she floundered for a response. She still hadn't thought of anything by the time he was out the door.

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><p>Eskrima is a form of martial arts developed in the Philippines.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Xochitl watched as Fletcher tottered towards the exit while one of his henchmen grabbed his coat from the coat check girl. She knew her plan was messy, but she needed to get to him tonight, before Jason or the authorities did.

"Hey, Nico," she said, placing her empty tray on the bar, "I know it's a few minutes until last call, but do you mind if I jet. It's been a weird night."

"No problem. You okay, Cruz?" asked Nico. The sound of her alias last name shouldn't have been so jarring to her. She'd been using it ever since she got to Gotham. But she'd been so focused on her task that it took her a moment to realize that Nico was talking to her. "You don't look so good. Want me to get one of the guys to drive you home?"

"No. No, I'm alright." She drew herself together, slipping back into her personae. "They were just a little handsy, and I'm itching to take a shower."

"I'll send Monique to cover their table next time they show. But if they ask for you by name, I don't—I can't…" The concern in his eyes was genuine, and if things had been different, she might have let herself go there.

But she wasn't a Cruz. She was Xochitl Aguilar, and the man who'd so callously ordered her brother's death had just walked out the door. She didn't have room in her heart for some guy that cared about her. Hell, she wasn't sure she had much of a heart anymore. "I can handle it. Besides, it's not like I wasn't compensated. A few more nights like this, and that gorgeous little Gucci bag is all mine."

She watched his eyes as she fanned out her wad of cash. Judging by his reaction, she'd been right about what would turn him off. With a sneer, he looked at her and said, "At least you've got your priorities straight."

Pushing down her regrets, she made her way to the back of the building, through the "Private" doors again, and even further, to the place where gray concrete walls and bright fluorescent lights shattered the fantasy of the club inside. She grabbed her things from her locker and stopped by the shop where the girls left their broken props and torn outfits for Mark's undocumented Guatemalan workers to repair. Some of the girls were highly protective of their things, keeping their preferred props and wigs locked up, but no one seemed to notice when things went missing from the shop, so long as they eventually made their way back. And those workers were very good at making things look as if they were brand new.

The air was brisk when Xochitl stepped outside, but aside from the occasional chill when a gust flew by, she welcomed the cool of the mid-autumn night. It helped her keep a level head as she went over the plan on her way to the L station a few blocks from the club. It was rushed, and she didn't have nearly as much time to prepare as she'd wanted, but it would have to do. She just hoped it would all work out.

DC-DC-DC-DC-DC

"Why did you put out a hit on Guillermo Aguilar?" asked Xochitl, slapping Fletcher awake. While the abandoned house she'd chosen for the interrogation hadn't been completely set up by the time he arrived, everything else was still going according to plan.

"Who?" Fletcher peered up at her, full of confusion, his pupils dilated both from the drugs and the light shining behind her. He struggled for a moment until he looked down with surprise to find his hands bound to a chair. "Who are you?"

"Karma," she said, delivering a punch to his stomach. "Why did you order the death of Prosecutor Guillermo Aguilar?"

"I don't…" he wheezed, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ten months ago, you ordered Ricardo Vietti to kill this man." She thrust the picture of her brother in his face. "I want to know why."

"Ten months ago? Sweetheart, I ordered the deaths of a dozen people _today_. What do I care about one man who killed in some city halfway across the country?"

She used her fist to wipe the sneer from his mouth. This time, she grinned as his expression went from anger to surprise to anger again just before spitting a tooth at her. Quickness and precision was fine and dandy, but men like Fletcher responded to power, something she didn't necessarily have since she weighed less than a buck and a quarter. What she did have was access to gloves with eight ounces of steel shot sewn into the knuckle.

"You bitch." He raged, straining against the ropes, a speckle of blood-colored spit forming at the corner of his mouth. "You're mad because some lawyer in Starling City is dead? I got news for you, you annoying little cunt. He got off lucky. You think you can come into _my_ town and beat _me_ up? I will find you, and I will break you. I will kill everyone you've ever loved. Your boyfriend, your brother, your father, your mother. And then I'll kill you."

Xochitl crouched defensively, hands grasping for the syringe in the back pocket of her jeans to sedate him.

"This isn't your town, Fletcher," said a gravelly voice from a dark corner of the room. "It's mine."

"Thank God you're here, Batman." Fletcher visibly relaxed, settling back into his chair as Xochitl felt her stomach drop. "This b- blonde was going to kill me."

She instinctively reached up to secure her borrowed wig but caught herself halfway and instead used her fingers to brush the bangs away from the mask over her eyes. "Not that I haven't been expecting you," she said, with false bravado, "but how did you find me?"

"You left a trail."

It couldn't be true. She'd been so careful. Different wigs, different clubs, interrogation spots scattered throughout the city. Hell, she'd even made sure the men would be picked up by different precincts.

"Half a dozen men, all claiming to be victims of a Goodnight Kiss. Although the women they described were different, all of the men had traces of Vertigo in their system."

_Shit_. She'd hoped that the drug hadn't traveled here to Gotham. Some executive's daughter had shoved them into her hands when she realized that she was actually attending the annual policeman's charity ball instead of a rager at the Queen mansion. Xochitl hadn't known how to dispose of the pills, and she certainly wasn't giving them back to the socialite whose father was a valued client of Walker and Associates. So she'd kept them. And then she'd discovered that in small doses, Vertigo had a hypnotic effect, making the subject highly susceptible to suggestion. It was why she'd gone back to Fletcher's table every half an hour, whispering into his ear the time and place he should meet her, despite the dirty looks from Destinee and the wandering hands of his men.

"I'm looking for justice, just like you, Batman," she said. "If you have to take us both in, then take us both in. But he has to pay for killing Mem-Mr. Aguilar. And all the others he's hurt in Starling City."

"I think you're both mistaken. I'm not here to stop you," said the man, stepping out of the shadows. "I'm here to help you."

Unless Batman had taken to wearing a red mask, this certainly wasn't him. And it wasn't his adolescent sidekick, either. It was a man standing in front of her, a man full of rage and vengeance. Simmering was the word that came to mind. The point just before water begins to boil, when the heat bubbles around the edges, but never enough to fully dispel the energy threatening to explode from its center.

"No. Red Hood, please," cried Fletcher, so at ease a moment ago was now trembling, "I didn't do what she says I did."

"I doubt that." Red Hood nodded at her, signaling her to continue her interrogation. She sunk a fist into Fletcher's gut. "I wouldn't put it past any of Rupert Thorne's men to order a prosecutor in Starling killed, especially if he'd been asking the kind of questions that make their way back to Gotham."

"Thorne? Didn't he used to be mayor? What would he want with a two-bit crook like me?"

"Two-bit crook? You've been investing in Starling for years," she said, yanking him by his shirt. He sputtered, gasping for breath. "Different precincts, different crimes, but they all led back to you. That's why you killed him. Admit it. He was starting to see the pattern."

"What does it matter if some lawyer dies?" The redness was receding from Fletcher's face as he sucked in the air, leaving purple blotches behind. "Do you know what would have happened to me if the FBI got wind? If they decided to do an inquiry?"

"Because that lawyer was her brother. And she deserves to know why he was murdered."

Xochitl jerked her head around to stare incredulously at the masked man. He knew who she was. And he'd just given her identity away.

"Well, it looks like his sister got all the balls in the family." Fletcher's eyes roamed over her as she backed away from him. "Little wetback got what he—"

The rasp of metal against his crotch silenced Fletcher far better than another punch in the mouth. "I think she could use another pair," Red Hood said, his voice barely above the whisper he'd made as he crossed the room. "How would you like to volunteer yours?"

"I don't-I wouldn't—"

"But I think we should let her do the honors, don't you?" He lifted the knife, offering it to her. She stared back, not sure whether to take it or run. She felt more exposed in her disguise than she ever did in the short skirt and low-cut top she wore for work.

But in that gesture, he'd also exposed himself. He'd shown her how lonely he was, how much he yearned for someone like him. Someone to share the rage. Someone to melt with when the pot boiled over and all hell broke loose. Someone who could accept him for the monster he was.

She wasn't that person. She wasn't ready to rush head first into the darkness. But she'd walk with him in the shadows, keeping one foot in the light. With as much speed as she could muster, she knocked the knife aside, plunging the syringe into Fletcher's neck.

"What are you—? Wait until my men—"

He flailed wildly against the restraints until the Vertigo reached his heart. Then it stopped beating.

"Not the way I would have chosen, but you killed him." Red Hood stood where the knife had landed, calmly tucking it back into his belt.

"I had to," said Xochitl, leveling a glare at him. "You gave me no choice."

"You look better with brown hair," he said with a shrug. "And what did you do to your nose?"

She pulled off the useless wig and mask. "It's called 'contouring.' I used makeup to make my features less recognizable. Since I don't have a red hood to cover my face."

"You should be glad. It gets pretty hot in here."

"You could take it off."

"I could." He didn't make a move, just continued to stand there, his eyes on her.

"The fall isn't what hurts," she said, hazarding a guess at his identity.

"What?" Xochitl was glad to see him flustered, but it still didn't tell her whether she'd guessed right.

"Falling from Heaven." Her gaze dropped to the picture on the floor, Fletcher's blood splattered across her brother's face. "The pain of falling is nothing compared to the pain of losing your wings."

"Xochitl, I'm sorry about your brother," Jason said, ripping off the red hood.

"All the things I've done since his death go against everything he stood for." She knelt down and began the tedious task of untying Fletcher. "But he's not here, and I am. And I'm gonna have to live with that."

Jason eyed her, warily.

"Are you just going to stand there, or are you gonna help me get this dead body into his car?"

He pulled out his knife again, slicing the knots. "You're taking this better than I expected."

"I didn't want to torture him," she said, frowning at him. "I didn't really intend to kill him, either. But I saw the way he reacted when he thought you were Batman. Men like Fletcher use the law to keep themselves safe, and abuse it to make themselves rich. My brother's brand of justice doesn't apply to him."

"So what are you going to do now?" His voice was casual and his face impassive as he hefted Fletcher's weight over his shoulder, but she detected that same yearning from before.

"Starling has its own vigilante," she said, keeping her tone light while she picked up any evidence of their activities. "I could see if he wants some help."

"You could stay here." His eyes flickered to hers as he pushed through the door, but like her, he kept his tone light. "We could call you 'Scarlet, the masked barmaid.'"

"Scarlet? O'Hara? A Southern lady I am not."

"You could be 'Little Red?'"

"And that would make you… 'Big Red?'" She laughed as she dug into Fletcher's coat for the car keys. Surprisingly, he let out a chuckle. "Why do I have to be 'Red' anything?"

"Sidekicks usually have a name that matches the hero's," he said, tossing the body into the trunk.

"What's that supposed to mean? What if I'm the hero, and you're the sidekick?"

"Tried that." A dark look crossed his face as he turned away from her. "It didn't work out so well."

She felt the pain radiating from him, no matter how hard he tried to mask it with anger. "How about we try being partners?" asked Xochitl, offering her hand to him. "Equals?"

"Partners?" He glanced down at her hand before raising his head to search her eyes. Hesitantly, he grasped her hand in his own. "Partners."

She tossed him the keys, sensing that he would prefer to drive. It wasn't something she would let him do all the time, but she let it slide for now. Jason seemed like the kind of guy that had a lot of buttons that needed protecting, and she'd have to be wary of which ones she pushed and when. It wasn't going to be an easy partnership, but it was one she was willing to try.

Besides, she couldn't go back to Starling City and the life she'd had there. Not after everything she'd done. Without her wings, Heaven was lost to her forever.


End file.
